


Drabbles, Scenes, and Other Short Things

by cypress_tree



Series: Quick Fics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Challenge Response, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Established Relationship, First Meetings, Frottage, Love at First Sight, M/M, Poetry, Post Reichenbach, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypress_tree/pseuds/cypress_tree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles, quick one-shots, and scenes that wouldn't get out of my head.  Each chapter stands alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thunderstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the [Johnlock Challenges](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com/) September 2012 prompt: thunderstorm.

“I thought I had lost you today.”

Thunder rumbled in London. In their darkened flat on Baker Street, Sherlock and John lay together on a sofa too small for two. Sherlock felt John’s chest rise and fall beneath him as John murmured into his hair.

“I love you, and it scares me. It suffocates me with every risk we take. If anything were to happen to you...” He closed his eyes and pushed his lips to the crown of Sherlock’s head, not kissing, just pressing. “Those three years without you. I would give anything not to relive that. Those were the worst years of my life. Easily.”

Sherlock smiled, uncomfortably. “Says the man who went to war.”

“Don't.” John stilled. The rain fell harder, giving his voice the illusion of being a whisper. “You can’t...that’s an unfair comparison.”

Sherlock swallowed remorse. Kissed John’s chest. Apologized for more than just the joke.

A flash of lightning lit the room. Sherlock flinched, but John didn’t react at all.

“It’s not that I was sad all the time, constantly thinking of you. It’s that I just...I didn’t feel anything at all. Every day it was like I woke up and I was empty. Every day for three years. And I thought it would be that way forever.”

They lay together in the silence of the room as the rain began to soften. John ran his fingers gently up and down Sherlock’s back. Sherlock could feel John’s breaths coming in controlled shudders, like the rolls of thunder in the sky overhead. He looked at the ring finger of his left hand, slender and pale. Barren. He waited for John’s breathing to even out again.

“Have you ever thought about marriage?” he asked. 

John didn’t answer. His hand paused for just a moment in the middle of Sherlock’s spine, then continued on its path, down and up, down and up. Sherlock waited, but an answer never came. He closed his eyes. Just before falling asleep, he felt John take his hand. The rain continued to fall.


	2. 12:10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John's first meeting at St. Bart's, from Sherlock's POV.

John Watson walks into the lab at St. Bart's, and Sherlock thinks "Oh. ...No."

Feelings that have been dormant for most of his adult life shift. The whole room is quiet and he can feel the marrow in his bones. He hears "bit different from my day," and he wishes he could trap the sound of that voice in his ears. If anyone were as observant as Sherlock, they would notice that his blink lasts just a bit longer than usual.

For a moment, Sherlock thinks that he has become ill. His skin feels prickly and his heart beats faster and then he feels a deep and sudden longing, and he realizes what these feelings are. For many long years, he thought he was incapable of this.

Sherlock doesn't believe in premonitions. Of course he doesn't, that would be ridiculous. And for that reason, he can't explain how he knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that this man is essential to his future. That without this stranger, Sherlock's life is incomplete.

(Sherlock also doesn't believe in love at first sight. But...well.)

Sherlock barely knows what he is doing, but he asks for Mike's phone while he struggles to remember a detail about the case that he is working on, and he has never, _never_ forgotten a detail like that before. He blames it on the air, because the air feels thinner, and Sherlock can't seem to get enough of it into his lungs, and surely that can't be his fault.

The stranger offers Sherlock his phone, and Sherlock remembers the detail just in time. He straightens his posture and takes a few steps forward and then they are in front of each other and their hands are millimetres away and he can almost feel the body heat between them. He glances up and they make eye contact and Sherlock thinks that he may have a heart condition.

He panics, and he decides to show off.

He decides to show off because it's what he does. Because it makes him feel more like himself and it comforts him to know that he is still somewhat in control of his mind. Molly walks in and interrupts and alright, maybe Sherlock knows he is being a bit rude, but if she only knew what she was standing in the middle of, then she would understand. Wouldn't she?

"How do you feel about the violin?"

Sherlock starts asking questions because he wants to know that this will not end before it has even begun. The strength of his desire to keep this man, to keep this _John_ , is overwhelming. The need for him is pressing in on Sherlock’s lungs. It’s a physical ache. A series of symptoms. It’s dyspnoea and cardiac arrhythmia and myocarditis. It’s a medical condition. It must be.

(He mentions the flat.)

Sherlock shows off some more to prove something to himself. He speaks quickly partially because he always speaks quickly, but also because he can’t control the way the words tumble from his mouth. He winks, and then kicks himself for winking, because really? _Really?_

Sherlock leaves the lab. He gets halfway down the hall before he guesses the passcode to the staff toilet, and locks himself in. He needs air and water and space. In the span of five minutes, the entire world has shifted. Everything (everything) has changed.

(Down the hall, still in the lab, John Watson leans on his cane and stares at the door and thinks “Oh. ...No.”)


	3. Prompt-fill: Cab-Frottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thing I wrote to fill [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=124931055#t124931055) on the kink meme, which requested "John rubbing Sherlock to completion in the back of a cab. "
> 
> So. Um. That's how that happened.

John doesn’t notice it at first. He’s too busy following as Sherlock sweeps away from the crime scene in a triumphant flourish. Sherlock can’t keep that smug grin off his face, and John can practically taste the adrenaline emanating from him in waves.

Now they’re in the back of the cab, and Sherlock is squirming. He crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. Spreads his knees just a bit, then clamps them together. John’s attention is drawn—how couldn’t it be?—and he looks over to find that Sherlock is hard.

John feels a rush of lust swell up inside himself, and he turns towards the window to keep from reaching over immediately. He can’t do this. They haven’t _done_ this. One spur-of-the-moment kiss over a week ago that neither of them spoke about after it was interrupted does not give him permission to just reach over and _touch_ his flatmate’s erection. And yet...

John’s hand twitches at his side, and he curls it into a fist. Sherlock is still trying to get comfortable. His adjusts himself subtly through his trousers, leaving his hand conveniently on his thigh. John is still battling his own conscience when he hears Sherlock make a noise. It’s barely perceptible over the radio, but it sounds almost like a whimper. John looks over and Sherlock is scowling, as if he’s angry at himself for having let it escape. That’s all it takes for John to come to a decision.

The cab is small, and they’re already sitting close, but John shifts closer, so that they’re pressed together, side-by-side. Sherlock stills completely when John moves, but his cock twitches in his trousers. John looks up and catches the cabbie’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. They both look away.

John has his left hand on his leg. He shifts it closer to Sherlock and brushes the back of his fingers over Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock takes a sharp inhale, then lets it out slowly. John twists his wrist and rests his palm against Sherlock’s leg. He runs it down towards his knee, then back up, achingly slowly, stopping just centimetres away from his cock. When he squeezes gently, but makes no indication of moving farther, Sherlock’s hand comes up to cover his own.

“ _Please_ ,” Sherlock murmurs, and John’s hesitation disappears. He covers Sherlock’s erection with his palm, surprised and turned on by its warmth, and by how hard Sherlock is already. Sherlock tilts his head back and takes a deep breath. The cabbie turns the radio up.

John squeezes and strokes, traces the shape with his fingers, and fondles the tip. Sherlock’s hips start to stutter forward, and it’s as if he physically can’t stop himself from making tiny helpless keening sounds. Sherlock’s desperation is fuelling John’s own arousal, but he just shifts his legs and tries to focus completely on Sherlock.

John is starting to stroke faster, putting more pressure on Sherlock’s cock as it hardens impossibly further under his hand. When his fingers run over the tip, he feels the wetness that has started to seep through the fabric of Sherlock’s trousers.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John breathes, and he feels another drop of pre-come.

Sherlock’s left hand is clutching tightly to the car door. His right is fisted on the seat between himself and John. He keeps looking down at John’s hand, eyes flickering now and then to the tent of John’s trousers. John can feel Sherlock’s breath brushing the side of his face. His exhales are coming hard and fast. His spine keeps wanting to arch out, and he thrusts thoughtlessly towards John’s fist.

John’s whole palm feels damp with sweat and semen. He teases at the head of Sherlock’s cock, then gives a strong rub down the whole length once, twice, three times—

Sherlock lets out a soft grunt as he comes. He mashes his face into the top of John’s head. John keeps stroking until Sherlock’s cock stills. He removes his hand and traces the shape of the stain on Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock lifts his head and gives a deep sigh.

“Thank you,” he says.

John doesn’t trust himself to respond. He subtly lifts his still-damp hand to his face and fakes a scratch over his nose. He takes a deep inhale of Sherlock’s scent on his skin.

“When we get home,” Sherlock says, his voice deep and rasping. “I’ll take care of you.”


	4. This Isn't Because It's Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Valentine's Day ficlet. Sherlock and John don't celebrate. Of course they don't, that would be ridiculous.

 

They had agreed not to celebrate Valentine’s Day. It was a foolish holiday created by card companies and pushed by candy stores and it was all about consumerism and guilt and spending. And besides, they knew that they loved each other; they didn’t have to make grand demonstrations at an arbitrarily-appointed day every year.

So. It was decided.

And that is why, at 10:00 on the morning of 14th February, when John walked into the bedroom with a tray piled high with breakfast foods, Sherlock sat up blearily, stretched his arms, narrowed his eyes, and asked,

“This isn’t because it’s Valentine’s Day?”

And John slipped back into bed, settled the tray over his lap, handed Sherlock a mug of tea, and said “No. Of course not.”

After breakfast, their kisses tasted like maple syrup and cinnamon. And if they accidentally swapped a little bit of chewed-up eggy bread between their mouths...well, they just ignored it.

 

\---

The rest of the morning was quiet and domestic, both Sherlock and John going about their business without interacting much other than John occasionally touching Sherlock’s arm and Sherlock asking John to brainstorm alternative uses for antique bone saws.

In the early afternoon, when John wandered into the kitchen with the intention of making lunch, Sherlock looked up at him sharply.

“You shouldn’t cook,” he said.

John’s eyes narrowed, and he looked down at the pan he was holding, inspecting the bottom for signs of contamination. “Why shouldn’t I cook?” he asked. Just to be safe, he put the pan in the sink.

Sherlock took a moment to respond. “I...know what you were going to make. I don’t want it. We’ll get something else.”

“And what was I going to make?”

“Honestly, John. If I’ve deduced it before you even consciously made the decision, then you don’t deserve to be told.”

John thought for a moment about arguing over the complete ridiculousness of this accusation, but decided against it.

 

\---

They wound up at a very small, out-of-the-way restaurant that specialized in hearty vegetarian soups. It was warm and cosy, with fogged windows and only three other customers inside. Sherlock ordered two bowls of soup and carried them to the back of the room, where John waited at a table so small that their knees knocked underneath when they sat down. They slurped loudly to avoid burning their tongues.

Sherlock looked up and caught John’s eyes, then quickly looked back down. John looked up and caught Sherlock’s eyes, then quickly looked back down. When they both looked up at the same time, John smiled, and Sherlock didn’t look away.

When they finished their soup, Sherlock brought their empty bowls to the counter and came back to the table with a slice of chocolate cake and two forks. John raised an eyebrow.

“Cake?” he asked. “This isn’t because it’s—”

“No,” said Sherlock, taking the first bite.

“No, of course not,” John said. His gaze flickered between the plate in front of them and the smudge of chocolate frosting at the edge of Sherlock’s lips.

 

\---

They made the decision to take the long way home without needing to discuss it. They were halfway there when John paused at the corner of an unusual side-street, then turned onto it, motioning for Sherlock to follow. He led them to a secluded park, where there was a small ice rink busy with skating couples. They stood at the edge of the grass, leaning against the wooden wall that enclosed the ice.

“Remember that time they found three bodies on the rink at the Natural History Museum?” John asked. He looked up in time to see the flicker of a smile on Sherlock’s face.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “If it hadn’t been for you miraculously finding a cat hair on the ice, I wouldn’t have solved it.”

“You would have.” John nudged Sherlock with his elbow. “You were brilliant.” Sherlock didn’t say anything, but John noticed the colour rise in his cheeks.

They chatted about nothing in particular while they watched the skaters from behind the wall. Occasionally, Sherlock ducked down close and spoke quietly in John’s ear, pointing out when someone was going to slip and fall. John felt bad for laughing.

“How can you tell?” he asked.

Sherlock suppressed a smirk. “Posture, mostly,” he said. “The quivering of their ankles, the bowing of their knees.”

John shook his head and linked their elbows together. His eyes wandered towards a small stand at the edge of the rink, where one could rent a pair of skates for £2. Sherlock looked at John with narrowed eyes.

“You don’t want to...We didn’t come here because it’s—”

“No.” John spoke firmly. “No, we don’t celebrate it, remember?”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “Pointless. Juvenile.”

John made a noise of agreement, then turned to Sherlock. “I wanted to go to Tesco to pick up a few things—and I need to stop by the chemist. But after that, we’re going out to dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes. You treated me to lunch, so it’s only fair that I treat you to dinner. And I know a place that’s having a special on dinners for two.”

Sherlock looked apprehensive. “Surely this ‘special’ is offered with the holiday in mind.”

“Well....yes.” John shrugged. “But just because we’re ignoring the holiday doesn’t mean we can’t take advantage of it.”

Sherlock couldn’t disagree with John’s logic, so he nodded his head. John didn’t admit that he had already made reservations a week in advance.

 

\---

The lights in the restaurant were dimmed, and there were three candles on the table when they arrived. A violinist stood in the corner of the room, playing Mozart. Sherlock’s attention was drawn to her more than John would have liked, but John didn’t mention it.

When their food arrived, they ate in relative quiet. John met Sherlock’s eyes and shifted one leg forward under the table so that it pressed against Sherlock’s. Sherlock returned the pressure.

 

\---

When they arrived back home, John stopped Sherlock just inside the front door. He took both of Sherlock’s hands and walked backwards towards the stairs, stepping up on the bottom stair so that they were eye-level. He pressed a feather-light kiss to Sherlock’s mouth, then breathed two slow breaths over his lips before kissing him again. His hands slid beneath Sherlock’s unbuttoned coat and stroked down his back. Sherlock took off his gloves and pulled John closer, slipping his own hands under John’s jacket to warm them against his stomach.

They stood still for a few long minutes, hands caressing and fingers tickling and mouths kissing down necks and over cheeks. They were just re-familiarizing their tongues when they heard a key in the lock, and Mrs. Hudson came in with a box of chocolates.

“Oh!” she said as she entered. “I didn’t mean to startle you...”

Sherlock turned to her and shook his head. John smiled. They didn’t let go of each other, but they stood at a polite distance.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to her flat and stepped inside, setting the chocolates down on a side table. She poked her head back out into the hallway. “I noticed you two went out this afternoon,” she said. “Did you have plans for the holiday?”

“We don’t celebrate it,” said John.

Mrs. Hudson looked to where Sherlock’s hands were stroking John’s stomach underneath his jacket. “Of course you don’t,” she said. John was just beginning to feel indignant when she closed the door.

 

\---

When they reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and expressed a desire to finish dissecting a lamb brain that he had been working with the day before. John smiled at the thought of the extra refrigerator space and pushed Sherlock in the direction of the kitchen. He sat down in his armchair, made himself comfortable, and picked up the novel that he was halfway through reading.

Every now and then, John looked up and watched Sherlock twirl a curl around his finger while deep in thought. When he found he was paying more attention to Sherlock than to his novel, he put the book aside and turned off the lamp before wandering into the kitchen. He put a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and massaged gently until Sherlock realized he was there, and looked up.

“Can that wait ‘til tomorrow?” John asked. He scratched at Sherlock’s nape, then trailed his fingers down, letting them linger just under Sherlock’s collar. “Will you come to bed?”

Sherlock nodded, silently. Together, they cleaned up the mess on the table, and washed their hands thoroughly. They retired to what was once Sherlock’s bedroom.

They moved towards the bed while kissing. John took off Sherlock’s shirt and tossed it on the floor, then traced Sherlock’s collarbone with his fingertips. Sherlock fell backwards when his knees hit the mattress. He began unbuttoning John’s shirt as John crawled over him. When one button came loose, hanging by a tiny thread, he plucked it off and leaned over to place it on the nightstand table as John let the shirt slide off his arms. John leaned back down, resting his forearms on the mattress and tangling his hands into Sherlock’s hair. He kissed Sherlock more thoroughly than before. Sherlock’s fingers had started twitching at the waistband of John’s jeans, but they stopped when John nibbled at his lower lip.

They were both suddenly very still. John pulled away with a dazed expression, then leaned close and whispered something into Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock flushed pink.

The bed sheet lay half-heartedly sprawled near their knees. When they unfastened each others’ trousers and kicked them to the bottom of the bed, the sheet came off entirely. They lay in a mess of bare limbs. Sherlock absently rubbed at John’s ankle with his foot. John kissed a fading bruise on Sherlock’s neck, then moved down, kissing over his chest and stomach. He chuckled against Sherlock’s belly when he heard a soft digestion noise. He pulled off Sherlock’s pants and moved to kiss the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock shivered.

“What do you want?” John asked, breathing the words right over Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock stared down at him, thinking for a moment that he had forgotten how to form sentences. He studied the way John’s eyes had darkened, how his hair needed to be cut, and how there was a shadow over his face because he hadn’t shaved in a day and a half. Sherlock bit his lip.

“Come back up here,” he rumbled, at last.

John crawled up and kissed Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock tilted his head back and tightened his grip on John’s shoulders. He slid his hand down John’s side and over his hip. He tugged off John’s pants with some difficulty, but when his hand wandered inward, John batted him away. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s palm.

“What about you?” Sherlock asked in a murmur.

John smiled at him, but didn’t answer. He slipped his hands beneath Sherlock’s arse and lifted him until their hips were flush together. Sherlock’s legs wrapped around John’s thighs, and they both caught their breath. Sherlock tried again to get John to speak.

“Is this because it’s—”

John put one finger to Sherlock’s lips, silencing his question. “Shh,” he whispered. “Breakfast? Maybe. The skating rink? Sort of. Dinner...alright, yes. But this...this is for any day. This is just because.” He kissed Sherlock very slowly, smoothing one hand down Sherlock’s chest.

John rocked forward and Sherlock’s breath hitched. He swung one hand out to the side and grasped blindly at the nightstand until he found a tube of lubricant. John took it from him and squirted some into his palm. He slicked it over their cocks, then ground forward with purpose. Sherlock groaned out loud. He wrapped his hands over the back of John’s neck to keep him close.

They slid against each other and knocked hands between their bodies, then rocked and pulled and gasped and kissed and made a bit of noise until finally, one after the other, they inhaled and shuddered and breathed out again.

John fell heavily against Sherlock, and Sherlock wriggled from the discomfort of drying sweat on his skin. John had his fingers in Sherlock’s hair again, pulling the curls straight only to let them go and watch them fall back against Sherlock’s head. Sherlock forgave this indignity in return for the feeling of John’s nails scratching lightly over his scalp.

Before long, Sherlock’s wriggling started to become an irritation, and John sighed more fondly than he meant to. He got up to retrieve a wet flannel from the bathroom, coming back to the bed to find Sherlock with his eyes closed. He sat astride Sherlock’s hips, smoothing the flannel over his stomach. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered, and he tilted his chin up. John leaned down and kissed him. Sherlock’s eyes were closed again when he pulled away. John cleaned himself off, then tossed the flannel on the floor. He reached to the bottom of the bed to retrieve the sheets, pulling them back up as he laid down close to Sherlock. They curled into each other.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured.

John ran two fingers along Sherlock’s hairline, playing with stray strands.

“I hope you had a good day,” he said. Sherlock opened his eyes. “I mean, even though we didn’t...celebrate.”

“Of course we didn’t,” Sherlock said, only a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He lifted a heavy hand and traced over the edges of the scar on John’s shoulder. He met John’s eyes with a question. John smiled.

“Yeah, me too,” he said. Sherlock’s eyes closed again. “So we should keep up this tradition. Of...not celebrating.”

Sherlock opened one eye. “Go to sleep, John.”

“Right.”

Sherlock moved closer, and John wrapped an arm around his waist. They fell asleep facing each other, Sherlock’s breath ghosting over John’s throat, and John’s hand smoothing over Sherlock’s back. On the nightstand table, the clock struck midnight, and the fourteenth of February came to an end.


	5. Prompt-fill: Fluffy and Kissy and Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I asked tumblr for drabble prompts to prevent my slow descent into boredom-induced insanity. An anon asked for: "something fluffy and kissy and domestic? Maybe John finding cute ways to cure Sherlock's boredom?" Their wish was my command, and my sanity was restored. Win-win.

John always knew when Sherlock had reached maximum levels of boredom, because he would signify them by lying upside-down on the sofa. This most often happened on Sundays, usually in the winter, and almost always in sunny weather. John wasn’t sure how these three things were correlated, but he didn’t particularly care. If a sunny winter Sunday was on the horizon, he tried to brace himself ahead of time.

This Sunday began like any other. They woke up around 8:30, spent half an hour lying in bed together, and then got up for breakfast. Sherlock started exhibiting minor signs of boredom (poking at his food, sighing heavily over his laptop) shortly thereafter, and didn’t let up until noon. At 12:00pm precisely, these minor signs ceased, and stage one of sulking commenced. Sherlock was lying on the sofa reading the newspaper when he let out a loud groan, crumpled the paper into a ball before John had had a chance to read it, and threw it across the room, narrowly missing John’s head.

“Is something wrong?” John asked dryly, knowing full well what the answer would be.

Sherlock didn’t even dignify the question with a response. He turned onto his side and exhaled all the air from his lungs.

“Is there something I can do?” John asked. “Steal a priceless artefact? Kidnap a politician’s child? Murder someone important?”

Sherlock grunted at the joke, but didn’t stir. He kept staring at the back of the sofa.

“Alternatively,” continued John. “We could leave the flat. Go to...a museum. The cinema. Things normal people do with their partners that don’t involve crime scenes.”

“Don’t want to change clothes,” Sherlock muttered.

“Sherlock, you wore those pyjamas all day yesterday, and the day before. If you wear them to bed again tonight, I’m burning them.”

Sherlock gave another dissatisfied grunt...and that’s when it happened.

As John watched in dismay, Sherlock turned 90°, put his legs over the back of the sofa, and let his head hang over the edge of the cushion. He was now upside-down--maximum boredom status: achieved.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” John muttered. He stood from his chair and pulled the coffee table away from the sofa before sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Sherlock. He tangled one hand in Sherlock’s hair and scratched at his scalp.

“Why do you always do this?” he asked. “It’s not good for you to lie upside-down for as long as you do.”

Sherlock frowned. “Bored,” he muttered.

“I know, I know. Don’t see how this helps, though.” John started massaging Sherlock’s scalp with both hands. Sherlock closed his eyes, and John took a moment to admire the length of his outstretched neck. He kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

“Have you ever seen _Spider-man_?” he asked. Sherlock opened his eyes and frowned in confusion over the non-sequitur. John laughed. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ We should watch it. I have a copy of the DVD that Harry lent to me when she was going through her superheroes phase. I never gave it back.”

“What makes you think sitting through a ridiculous film is going to allay my boredom? When have I ever liked any film you’ve made me sit through?”

“Oh shut up,” John grumbled. He pinched Sherlock’s nape, pleased when Sherlock gave a quick smirk before settling back into his sulking expression. “You’ve enjoyed plenty of my movies. And there’s some pretty terrible science in this one that I’m sure you’ll enjoy correcting.”

Sherlock hummed a non-reply, but he had lost some of the tension in his forehead, and his frown had become half-hearted.

“You made me think of it,” John said. “Because of what you’re doing right now, actually. There’s this one scene, where Spider-man is upside-down...” His voice trailed off, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“And?” he asked.

John smiled, but didn’t answer. He put both hands to the sides of Sherlock’s face, and held him still as he knelt up, leaned over, and kissed Sherlock gently on the mouth. It was awkward and messy, and he wasn’t sure what to do with his tongue. He laughed into the kiss.

“We’ll have to watch the scene,” he said. “See how it’s done. And then practice a bit.”

Sherlock brought a hand to the back of John’s neck and pulled him down for another try.


	6. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a [popular text post on tumblr](http://sprightlyvigilante.tumblr.com/post/43038720359/the-year-is-2066-physical-contact-has-been) that reads:
> 
> "the year is 2066. physical contact has been outlawed. hug dealers tenderly embrace people in the dead of night and shady people hold hands in dark streets."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also available [translated into Russian.](http://ficbook.net/readfic/721315) Thank you, hardeski!

The sight of the victim makes John’s chest feel hollow. He stares down at her, his eyebrows knit. Her body is covered in fingerprints. The air around her smells like loneliness. Desolation.

Lestrade looks sickened. His lips are turned down, and his skin has taken on a honeydew hue. He watches as Sherlock kneels next to the body.

“An addict,” Sherlock says. “Affection.”

The alley is silent for a few beats.

“How can you tell?” asks Lestrade. His voice is tight when he speaks.

“Clothes. She was embracing someone when she died.”

Sherlock looks up and finds John’s eyes. John kneels next to him without saying a word. Lestrade flinches at the sight—Sherlock and John have always shared more personal space than most people find comfortable.

“Strangulation, obviously,” says John. He leans in closer and uses a long wooden paddle to shift the body so he can see the victim’s neck. “Definitely. Look at the bruise over her hyoid.”

Lestrade peers over, grimacing.

“God,” he says. “All this for a bit of contact.”

John nods. He doesn’t say anything.

 ---

The cab ride back to Baker Street is quiet, and John spends most of it staring out the window, eyes looking first at the lights outside, then at Sherlock’s reflection in the glass. Sherlock is facing in the opposite direction. John wonders if he is staring back.

 ---

They climb the seventeen steps up to 221B and shut the door heavily behind them. Sherlock throws his coat on the sofa. He goes right to the windows and pulls the drapes closed, then he stalks back across the room. John is reaching for him.

They crash together like a train wreck. John’s hands slip around Sherlock’s waist, then smooth over his back, feeling each muscle—the opposite side of each rib. Sherlock’s hands curl under John’s arms, hook onto his shoulders, locking him in tight.

Sherlock clings and John caresses. It is always like this—holding and roaming and feeling. John's fingertips have memorized the textures of Sherlock's skin. His back is like still water, gnarls of scarred skin like river rapids. His neck is warmer and smooth. Crème brûlée, maybe. The silky custard underneath the shell. Sherlock is soft but angular.

And his hands—Sherlock's hands are a prize that John is honoured to have won. His fingers are impossibly long, burned by chemicals and scarred because of...every reason imaginable, really. He's missing a fingerprint on one ring finger. He chews the nail of his right index when he thinks no one's looking. When he has a hangnail on his thumb, he toys with it until it bleeds, and John insists on covering it with a plaster.

When Sherlock's hands touch John's skin, it feels as though they're exothermic.

 ---

After embracing for the better part of an hour, they sit on the sofa, and turn on the telly. There’s nothing on, but they aren’t really watching.

"I can't imagine anyone else touching me," John says.

Sherlock looks down at John's hand in his. He doesn't say anything.

"Have you ever touched anyone else?" John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. He still doesn't speak. John rubs his thumb over the side of Sherlock's hand.

"Sometimes I think about kissing you," he whispers.

He watches Sherlock’s lips part, and he leans in closer.

John has always liked danger. And Sherlock has never followed rules.


	7. Recitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a birthday ficlet for [yakuzadog](yakuzadog.tumblr.com).

It’s well past midnight when John walks into the bedroom to find Sherlock lounging against the headboard, a worn copy of _Gay Love Poetry_ in his hands.

John stops, eyes narrowed. “Did you take that from the crime scene this morning?” he asks.

Sherlock looks over the top of the book and doesn’t answer. When Sherlock doesn’t answer, it means the answer is yes.

John rolls his eyes. He strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed.

“The case is solved, and the victim will hardly be needing it anymore,” says Sherlock, turning a page, lazily.

John frowns. “That’s not the point.”

Sherlock shrugs.

It’s chilly, for August. Sherlock likes to leave a window open, and a brisk night-time breeze flutters the curtains and carries London into the bedroom. John watches Sherlock read, silver eyes flickering back and forth across the page.

“Are you going to be up for much longer?” John asks.

Sherlock is quiet.

“You know I can’t sleep when you leave the lamp on.”

Sherlock is still quiet.

“If you want to read, you could always use the book light.”

Sherlock makes no move to reach for the book light. John huffs a long-suffering sigh, then slides down beneath the covers. He scowls at the wall for ten minutes before Sherlock turns off the lamp. Sherlock wraps an arm around John’s waist.

“ _Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again_ ,” he whispers.

John’s eyes blink open.

“What?”

“Frank O’Hara. ‘Mayakovsky,’ 1957.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock’s fingers stroke languid paths against the bare skin of John’s stomach. John turns around to face him.

“Did you just recite poetry to me?”

Sherlock smirks. John can barely see it, his eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness. He shifts closer and kisses the hollow of Sherlock’s throat.

“I love the catastrophe of your personalty. Tell me more.”

Sherlock picks up the book and clips on the book light as John kisses his neck.

“ _He came near me, with his lips uncurled_  
 _And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,_  
 _And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend,_  
 _Come I will show thee shadows of the world_  
 _And images of life_.”

John grins against Sherlock’s collarbone. “Sounds nice, but why would you want to see shadows of the world? Or just images of life?”

Sherlock hums in thought and flips through a few pages as John dips beneath the bedsheet. He presses his forehead to Sherlock’s chest and inhales their mingling musks.

“Ah,” Sherlock says, softly. He gives a quiet snort of laughter. “ _Love is full of foolish fantasies_.” He chuckles to himself, jostling John’s head. “That one speaks to me,” he says with amusement.

John laughs. “Pick something more romantic.”

Sherlock sneaks one hand under the covers and smoothes over John’s back. John closes his eyes to better concentrate on the feeling. He hears the sound of Sherlock’s fingertips scratching paper.

“ _I’ll never renounce, never relinquish the first radiance, the first moment you took my hand_.”

John’s breath halts, and he swallows. He crawls back up until his face is level with Sherlock’s. He plucks the book from Sherlock’s grip, turns off the book light, and places them both on the table. He leans down and kisses Sherlock’s waiting mouth.

“I like that one,” he says.

Their kisses are slow, but impassioned—quiet and soothing as they slide and taste.

John sighs happily when they part. He lies with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. He wants to fall asleep with warmth beneath his cheek.

Sherlock’s breath rustles John’s hair.

“ _Keep this secret—_ ” he says. “ _The tie that binds us is an unbreakable rope_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poems Sherlock quotes are all written by queer men and are, in order:
> 
> ["Mayakovsky,"](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/238460) by Frank O'Hara  
> ["Two Loves,"](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Two_Loves_\(1894_poem\)) by Lord Alfred Douglas  
> ["Sonnet 16,"](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/183677) by Richard Barnfield  
> ["Beautiful Signor,"](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182919) by Cyrus Cassells  
> ["Love in Bloom,"](http://iran-persia.blogspot.com/2007/09/abu-nawas.html) by Abu Nuwas
> 
> there is, in fact, a book called _Gay Love Poetry_ , but I have never seen more than its Amazon page, so that wasn't intended to be the same book Sherlock is reading from. I'm not even sure if any of these poems are included in it.


End file.
